NEW STUFF FOR YOU OUR FANS!

Rachel and I got a new blog. Because this one is a sham and the whole relationship between all of us fell apart in less than a month's time. Laura moved out and her boyfriend Will has taken her place. rachel may be going next.

Our new blog is : unadornedconfab.blogspot.com

Hip hip hip she's got real hips. 

I forgot too

I completely forgot this blog existed

It slipped away somewhere between Winter and Spring

where most of my memories seem to scurry.

Rachel and I went to an Obama rally tonight

sometimes I think that we are conscious of too much. I mean how do you turn off the skepticism? 

Would we choose to switch it off if we really had the chance?

I think I would vote no on the previous rhetorical.

I want so badly to believe that someone is actually aware and willing to do something for us.

I'm sure this thought has been thought before

this blog blogged

this ash ashed

but really... who will save us?

During my Vonnegut obsession I frequented a column on Inthesetimes.com entitled "Dear Mr. Vonnegut"

One letter posed:

"Dear Mr. Vonnegut, I have not so much a comment or a question for you, but rather a request: Please tell me it will be OK."

To which he replied:

"Dear Joe, Welcome to Earth, young man. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, Joe, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of: Goddamn it, Joe, you've got to be kind!"

Upon re-reading his response, I don't know why I reacted so strongly, 

but the first time I wept in a public place (a strict badass/Sagan rule breaker).

But I think it was the first time in my young adult life that I had witnessed anyone being real. There are no remedies to the human condition, no prescriptions, or words of advice to make your trip a little easier or more economic. You just have to hold your breath, swallow it down and hope that someone offers you a glass of water. 

I once thought that Mr. Vonnegut would save the world. He would stand up tall and geriatric facing a crowd of hopeful onlookers in front of the White House and look sorrowfully into the crowd, tears streaming down his wrinkled jowls to announce with grand gestures, a heart bursting with kindness and want for the American people and proclaim that everything would be OK; that he had come at last to lift us from our deepest caverns, coax us down from our mountain peaks, embrace us with his nicotine stained hands, and finally finally make us all whole again. He would devise community projects, distribute purpose with firm handshakes (maybe throw in a couple winks), he would hand out hope without disappointment, and bestow upon us the gift of a future without a desperate and hostile path. Then he died. 

I mean he was old anyways. I was being foolish, I was longing for what every young adult desires: to see their hero call the shots, design the cars, feed the hungry, house the homeless, and most importantly, call us up every other Sunday to join them for a long cup of coffee and invigorating conversation. But unfortunately, we are most frequently disappointed. 

But right now, I feel this breeze.

I was explaining this to Rachel during breakfast-dinner at the Waffle House.

It's like when you are sitting in the kitchen and you feel this gust of air. It's nearly insignificant, but every now and again it swells just enough so that you are forced to look up and turn your head in search of an open window. Then you stand up and walk to the living room to see that the door is actually open, so you close it. 

This breeze, though, seems to have no origin. Wherever I look, the windows are tightly sealed, the door locked, the fan unplugged. It's like being in a room that is only partly enclosed. You're not quite cut off from the rest of the world, they're still looking in and you're still aware that anything could happen at any moment, that you do not have control.

I feel that. It's not novel, I've experienced this before. It is usually followed by something big (relatively). I felt this breeze when Taylor died. I remember the morning, Icq'in on the family Gateway and obsessively glancing over my shoulder every 5 minutes just scanning the room for some opening to the outside, but I never found it. I eventually discovered the source of my discomfort, but it originated from no screen door or blasting vent. 

I think something is going to happen. I think that Obama may be honest. I think that he may very well be vying for our needs to be addressed, maybe even resolved. I think he is my Vonnegut in red, white, and blue armor. His dialogue is unique. He is addressing issues so directly and with such fervency that he couldn't be lying. So many politicians skim actual problems when describing the trajectory of their economic policies, but their game is easily revealed. But Obama asks the questions that I ask: Why is this happening? Why are we ignoring the billions of wasted dollars, the glaring corruption of lobbyists and corporate tax breaks, energy mongers, and lucrative prostitution circles? Why are they allowed to go about their foreign policy blunders without addressing these incredibly visible and poignant issues? 

BUT I know I know I know that he's just trying to win my vote. I know that he can't actually care about me. I can't pretend that I trust him or anyone else for that matter who consciously chooses to step up and run for such a powerful political position. There has to be something he's not telling us, something the media is hiding. Some character flaw or secret scheme to take over the world. I mean, there's something right? 

Or am I paranoid? I mean I know that I'm paranoid about a lot of things, but I feel like this we must not yet shed our inhibitions or let our firm distrust be swayed by charisma and grace. We cannot allow ourselves to be wooed by a young face and fresh organic produce promises. If I think about the repetition of history (and I rarely do), I am aware of several dictators who were adored by their citizenry because they arrived just in time to save their mother lands from a devastation of all hope and purpose. How do I know that the same will not be true about our dear Obama? He has all the ingredients to be a textbook dictator. He promises change, a large shift in government structure, a new vision for the economy, racial/religious/sexual/economic equality. He's charismatic and charming without being suave or overly emphatic. He knows how to speak, he knows to whom he is speaking, and how best to formulate his dialogue based on this god-given awareness. He's perfect. And I mean, he may very well be perfect. For all I know, he is the saint of all saints that we have been hoping and clasping our hands for. He may be the solution or at least an acidic catalyst to begin addressing and resolving pressing global issues. 

But he could be lying.

What I really want is this: I want him to sit down and have a cup of coffee with me. I want him to shed himself of political flattery, slouch, relax, look me in the eye and be real. I mean really real, just for a second. 

And I want to ask him:

"Are we going to be OK?"

And I want him to say "Yes," I need him to say "yes."

i forgot

Hello, blog. I forgot about you. 

Today was a bad day. Not a bad day in the epic, literal sense of "mother fuckin EVERYTHING went wrong," just a day where nothing feels right. I spent a long time walking around campus today trying to find someone to sign my advising forms. No one would sign them. IU doesn't care if I go to London, they just want to know I'm graduating so they will be paid. 

Fuddasheebee.

Tom is my knight in shining armor. He smoked me out, took tomorrow's shift for me, and ranted on and on about how I should just kick everyone's asses because I deserve London more than anyone he knows. 

So, staring out stoned onto the familiar intersection of Indiana and 3rd, tears inexplicably come to my eyes, mimicking the oh-so-melancholy rain that had just begun to fall. People like Tom make life worth living. 

It's not that I'm so negative and coldhearted about the world and my life and existence... it's just that I'm so unsatisfied with what I've seen thus far. I'm anxiously seeking and not finding. Sure the lights look pretty on the lake, but is this WHY we're here? No. Beauty (natural, manmade, or in people) is not an explanation of why we're here, but rather a reason to keep us from killing ourselves. Beauty gives us motivation to continue looking for the 'real' reason we're here, while also providing a distraction, a moment of ecstasy; a thoughtless, timeless space where we can forget about our individual existence and become wrapped up in everything else's. 

Ok. So this realization is not that mind blowing. It may even be considered slightly negative and it certainly hasn't remedied my state of existential melt-down. However, at least it's pretty here and there are fun things to do and wonderful people to meet.

whatever

All my friends have died

Girls

We are falling down on the job here

we are supposed to be providing our audience

with titillating insight about our girlish lives

this means sex drugs illegal things

and most importantly

our opinions on the state of the word.

More imperative than our audience is ourselves

And by this

I mean that we are supposed to keep updated on each other's 

lives through this blog 

(this of course excludes the Sagan/Rachel interaction, because we all know that it is frequent and few details are left out of that intercourse)

So that just means the sagan rachel laura audience interaction is being disrupted

which is still quite vital

vital to our souls and our minds and our other things

So I have yet to tell Laura this

Rachel, hold your breath

I'm going to Canterbury next year

that's right. I got in

what up

yeah

so how's the affair going?

Whoooo

Welcome February! What a month you are. Did you know February 13th has the highest suicide rate of any other day? Well regardless, welcome and feel free to stick around for a while. To be honest January was getting a bit old anyways...

haploid in the moment, proceed with caution

Sometimes I forget that life is pretty awesome and eternal and beautiful. Sometimes I get cold and frustrated and hungry. Sometimes I just really want to take a steaming hot shower, but something outside of my control prevents the instant gratification. Sometimes when my mom tells me about what is really happening in our lives, our familial financial state, the varying degrees of healthcare my outer relatives are receiving, the state of the economy and my place in it; when she tells me that I would rather just nod and make small noises of comprehension than actually realize what thin ice it is that i've been skating. I like to think that I am in control of my place in this whole thing. But the stubborn alternative high school student never knew a goddamn thing.   I liked to think that i had the ability to debate the middle aged patrons of Bob Evan's with enough knowledge and grace to keep them coming back for more. But really, they saw through my bluff. And now, looking back, I realize what it was that I was lacking. Why I was never fully involved in the relevant discussion. I lacked passion. And to some degree I think I still do. I mean. I get overexcited or angry or really happy. But these are all fleeting emotions that can change momentarily. Never have I experienced an enduring passion, a need to know more, want more, touch more, get more. I envy Rachel because of her ability to engage a new topic so intensely that she is unable to concentrate on anything else. While I see the crippling effects of both extremes, I wish that I could just find something in the middle. 

I was thinking about Taylor a lot last night. I can't remember what her voice sounded like, or even the vocabulary she used. Every attempt at auditory recall comes out sounding squeaky and awkward. I remember exactly what she looks like. But i can't really remember details of the things we did together. But I do remember that when Taylor was my best friend, I was a passionate person. I was obsessed with music and knowing everything I could possibly find on the internet about certain bands. I loved school and applied myself heavily. Taylor and I used to talk for hours upon hours about our views of eternal life, or religion, or who if we would marry if we were forced to at the moment. Just days before she died, we even discussed what we would say to each other upon the effect of our dying. We loved each other so much that we promised, if it came down to it and one of us went, the other would kill themselves to join. But when it came down to it, I even lost my passion for that. I barely visited her grave, I took her pictures down from my walls. I curled up into a ball and never came out again. 

And I believe that I am still encapsulated somewhere in the moments after her death. I have yet to escape that abandonment. I am still standing on the railroad tracks with a bottle full of pills. 

Sorry about the melancholy. Our friend Josh Ward overdosed 2 years ago today. Funny thing about people dying in Warsaw, It always seems to land on the 28th. I think there are three different people who died within 2 years of each other on the 28th of some month. I guess today is a good day to die. 

I'm not really depressed though. Just disenchanted. A little nostalgic, and a whole lot of lost. 

Sometimes I just need to talk about Taylor. Because I really think she was the last good thing I ever saw. 

TACO PUPPIES